


i like to keep some things to myself

by amosanguis



Series: Sherlock and Mycroft, Smaug and Scatha [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Distant relatives used as a plot device, Gen, Memory Alteration, Mild Gore, Possessive!Sherlock, Sherlock may love John but he's still not a good man (dragon), Telepathy, Temporary Character Death, title from a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amosanguis/pseuds/amosanguis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sherlock stretches out tendrils of magic to soothe away John’s nightmares, well, Sherlock just pretends that it was because the scent of fear and adrenaline and sweat was too much.  And it had absolutely nothing to do with how much better John looked in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i like to keep some things to myself

**Author's Note:**

> In keeping with the other fic in this series, title is taken from "Shake It Out" by Florence + The Machine

-z-

_Don’t make people into heroes, John.  Heroes don’t exist and if they did_ I _wouldn’t be one of them_.

And it’s really the best Sherlock can do – because he remembers the Age of Heroes.  And he remembers how those heroes burned at his feet when they came to kill him.

But there’s something about John, something that almost makes him want to do better.

Because John, after knowing Sherlock for only two days, readily kills to protect him.  And it’s something.  He doesn’t know why it’s something, but it makes him stir – makes him want to use his brain not only to solve cases, but to impress the little human.

But after living with John Watson for some time, Sherlock knows that he’s not just a simple  _human_.  John may have actually be one of those heroes Sherlock warned didn’t exist – because John still carries the scent of bullets and blood and guilt. 

And from his bedroom, he listens as John tosses and turns in the throes of his nightmares.  And, if Sherlock stretches out tendrils of magic to soothe away John’s pain, well, Sherlock just pretends that it was because the scent of fear and adrenaline and sweat was too much. 

And it had absolutely nothing to do with how much better John looked in the morning.

 

-x-

 

But, somewhere along the way, Sherlock’s magic started acting of its own accord.  His fire thrummed in his veins, wanting to dance and show off for John.

Sherlock growls in frustration as his body fights to betray him.

It had started out with little things – his magic re-heating John’s tea if it grew cold, his fire flaring hot and dangerous whenever Donovan or Anderson looked at John wrong.

But then, with the arrival of a new detective – a new transfer from some city that Sherlock hadn’t been paying attention to because this man was suddenly in John’s space, shaking his head and looking him up and down.

And there was a sharp crack of thunder that shook the buildings around them. It caused the man to jump away from John, allowing Sherlock to casually maneuver himself away from the body and between the two of them.  And when the man turned from looking away from the sky and back to John, his nose smashed into Sherlock’s chest.

Lightning flashed and Sherlock used the light, slowed time around them just long enough so his eyes flared that fire-gold.  And the new detective was jumping back, but Sherlock released his hold on Time and his magic reached out and gave the tiny human a little shove – and then he was falling back completely.

Sherlock grinned inwardly and was just about to make a snide remark when he caught Mycroft’s disapproving gaze from across the street.  So Sherlock snorted, rattled off his deductions about the body and the possible murderers before he nudged John into following him as he walked over to Mycroft.

 _Getting a little careless, brother?_ Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock shrugged and sniffed once, holding his head higher and responded: _He touched John._

_You’re possessiveness of him would be amusing if not for how obvious you are._

_He hadn’t seemed to noticed_ , Sherlock glanced down at John who was looking between the two Holmes brothers, patiently waiting for someone to speak, not knowing that Sherlock and Mycroft were already having a conversation.

 _And what will happen when he_ does _notice?_

_Leave it, Mycroft._

And Mycroft let out an exasperated exhale of breath and pursed his lips before he clambered back into his car.

And as Sherlock turned on his heel to hail a cab, he head Mycroft whisper: _The time is coming, you’re going to have make this choice soon._

 

-x-

 

“Soon” turned out to be only a week later.

Sherlock’s at the flat with Mycroft when he hears John scream.

John who is in Scotland visiting long lost relatives and it’s too far for Sherlock’s magic to take him.

But John’s screaming is still echoing inside his head and so Sherlock jumps out of the window and then he’s unfolding his wings for the first time in decades.  He hears Mycroft shout after him, but it’s drowned out by John’s terror, John’s pain.

So Sherlock grabs Time, tries to slow it as much as possible as he flies as fast as he can.  But John’s getting quieter, his terrible agony is dulling into a soft ache.  So Sherlock beats his wings harder.

 

-x-

 

Sherlock lands a few miles from where John is, shifts back into his human form, and as he runs to find his human, he weaves his magic around him to clothe himself.  His control on Time has slipped and finally he has to let go.

And then he’s on the edge of a little Scottish village and there’s a fire roaring – and he searches for John’s mind.

And he finds nothing.

So Sherlock screams for John – mentally and aloud – when he reaches the building.  His magic reaches out and _finally_ , he finds John.

“Sir, you can’t go in there!” some human tries to reach for Sherlock, but with a flick of his wrist, the man is sent flying backwards.

The flames do nothing to Sherlock’s skin, they tease and kiss at him – and with a few whispered words, they shrink back and fizzle out and let Sherlock find John.

And Sherlock’s hand flies to his mouth when he finds him.

Because even though he know what fire can do to the human body – had often even laughed when he saw it because dragon fire was a thousand times stronger, a hundred thousand times hotter and nastier and hungrier than anything humans could produce – it’s different when John’s the one who is the victim.

John’s skin and muscles were burnt away, his bones were exposed and it was obvious that he had been trying to save someone, but a large wooden beam had fallen over his chest and he had been trapped.

And a roar is ripped from deep inside Sherlock’s chest and suddenly all around the flames are roaring back to life and there’s no amount of magic that can keep Sherlock’s true form locked away.  So his wings unfurl and he tears his way out of the building and up into the sky – John’s burned and broken body clutched tightly to his chest.

And he just keeps flying until there’s nothing around them and, with as much care as he can, he lays down in front of him.  And he reaches deep, searches for the healing fires he knows he has but has never used.

And then he blows the white flame over John, praying that it’s not late.

And nothing happens.

So Sherlock tries again.

And again.

And again.

 

-x-

 

Mycroft finds Sherlock in a field of ash.

 _Smaug_ , he whispers Sherlock’s true name for the first time in nearly a century, _don’t you know it takes two to bring someone back from the dead?_

 And Sherlock just stares, watches as his brother shifts.

And then there’s white flame bubbling up from Mycroft’s chest and Sherlock echoes him and together – they coat John’s remains with white fire and healing magic.

It’s almost instantaneous.  John’s muscles knit together and regrow and then his eyes are flying open and he takes in a desperate gasp for air.  He rolls onto his elbows and knees, coughs and cries as his lungs burn with exhaustion and with the need for more oxygen.

And then notices the ground beneath him – the blackened trees covered under layers and layers of ash.  Then he looks up and sees the two dragons.

And promptly passes out.

 

-x-

 

John wakes up with a gasp.

“Easy, John,” and Sherlock is there and he’s pressing something cold and wet to John’s forehead.  “Easy.”

And John’s just staring at Sherlock as if he can’t believe he’s even there and then he remember the fire and _dragons_ and the words come spilling rapidly out of his mouth and he can’t shut up.  But then Sherlock is pressing a soft kiss to his mouth and John is effectively subdued.

And just as he tries to conjure up the image of the dragons again, it flies away just out of reach.

“Go back to sleep, John,” Sherlock says, softly pushes John down into bed. 

And when he’s finally asleep, Sherlock makes his way to the living room.  Mycroft is tiredly rubbing at his face.

“Thank you, Scatha,” Sherlock says, using Mycroft’s true name.  The name makes his older brother pause before he huffs out a laugh.

“You must be truly sincere, if you’re using that name,” he says.  “I don’t like tampering with that many people’s memories,” he gestures to the entire village outside the home of John’s relatives.

“I know,” Sherlock walks over to the window, “I lost control.  I’m sorry.”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, but Sherlock feels his brother’s understanding.

“Has John forgotten?” he asks.

“He remembered a little,” Sherlock answered, picking at the lace curtains, “when he wakes up he’ll think it was a nightmare.  I’ll tell him that he was pulled from the fire, and that his relatives called me and told me what happened, and so I came.”

“I have someone working on the memories on those near Baker Street,” Mycroft said.  “Please try to avoid shifting like again.”

Sherlock nodded as he turned towards his brother.

“I know,” he breathed, ran a hand through his curly hair, “I could just hear John screaming and--”

“Smaug,” Mycroft stood, buttoned his suit jacket, “one of these days you’re either going to have to leave him, or tell him the truth.”

Sherlock doesn't say anything, just stares at the ugly carpet beneath his shoes.  He goes back to the room John is in, pulls up a chair, and settles in to wait for him to wake.

 

-z-

 

End


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